Break No Bones (17 page)

I checked several clippings. Similar information had been circled in each.

So Cruikshank was colecting stories on missing persons. These didn't appear to be client-initiated investigations. The files contained no checks. No reports. Why the interest?

Two of Cruikshank's files contained only handwritten notes. One was labeled
Helms, Willie,
the other
Montague, Unique.
Their placement in the carton suggested they'd been created shortly before Cruikshank's death. Why? Who were Wilie Helms and Unique Montague?

Frustrated, I began a spreadsheet and went back through the folders, puling out unsolved missing persons cases.

Ethridge, Parker, white male, 58, 5 feet 7 inches, 135 pounds, gray hair, blue eyes. Last seen March 2002.

Moon, Rosemarie, black female, 28, 5 feet 3 inches, 105 pounds, red hair, brown eyes. Last seen November 2002. Known drug user and sex trade
worker.

Watley, Ruby Anne, black female, 39, 5 feet 5 inches, 140 pounds, black shoulder-length hair, brown eyes. Last seen July 2003. Known drug user and
sex trade worker.

Poe, Harmon, 39, white male, 5 feet 11 inches, 155 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Last seen April 2004. Known drug user.

Snype, Daniel, 27, black male, 5 feet 5 inches, 120 pounds, blond shoulder-length hair, brown eyes. Last seen June 2004. Known drug user and sex
trade worker.

Aikman, Lonnie, white male, 34, 5 feet 8 inches, 160 pounds, green eyes, brown hair. Last seen spring 2004. Schizophrenic.

The Dewees case matched none of the profiles. I added it to the spreadsheet.

CCC-2006020277, white male, 35-50, 5 feet 10 inches to 6 foot 1 inch, blond hair. Fractured C-6 vertebra. Nicks on twelfth rib, twelfth thoracic
vertebra, and upper lumbar vertebrae. Buried on Dewees.

Winborne had written his article in March. Did Aikman's disappearance explain Winborne's behavior on Dewees? Did the reporter think we'd stumbled across Lonnie?

Cruikshank had clipped Winborne's story on or after March 14. Was Aikman's the last file he opened?

And why the Helms and Montague files? What was contained in the coded comments?

I was trying to make sense of my notes when Pete arrived.

"It is I, the great bearer of pizza," his voice boomed from the foyer.

I heard keys hit a tabletop, then Pete appeared in the doorway. He was in chinos and what looked disturbingly like a bowling shirt. A Hornets cap completed the ensemble.

Boyd shot over and circled the great bearer's ankles, nose sniffing the grease-stained box in his hands.

"I bought a large on the chance that you were here and hungry. Why are you working without lights?"

I'd been so intent on my spreadsheet I hadn't noticed the room dim. My watch now said eight twenty.

"Why is it dark so early?"

"There's a kick-ass storm moving in. The whole island's battening down hatches. Do we have hatches? Are they battened?"

I noticed Pete's cap. "Bad news, Pete. The Hornets moved to New Orleans."

"I like the colors." Pete took the cap off and admired the logo.

"Purple and turquoise?"

"Not turquoise, you boor. Teal. Hues chosen by Alexander Julian and envied al across the league."

"Designer hues or not, the team left Charlotte."

Tossing the cap to a sideboard, Pete tipped his head at the files stacked beside me. "What are you doing?"

A tickle from my lower centers.
Heads-up
!

What? Heads-up to what?

"Ground control to Tempe."

I snapped back.

"What are you doing?" Pete repeated.

"Going through Cruikshank's cases."

"Cruikshank's PC, I assume. Any luck with it?"

I shook my head. "Can't fathom a password. Where have you been al day?"

"Trapped in fiduciary hel. What's brown and black and looks good on accountants?"

Knowing it was a mistake, I raised both palms.

"Doberman pinschers."

"That's lame."

"But true. These guys must choose accounting because they lack the charisma to be undertakers."

"Did you quiz Herron about Helene Flynn?"

"The good reverend felt we should start with the books."

My brows drifted upward.

"Don't give me that look. Buck hired me to trace his money. In the process I was to learn what I could about the daughter."

"Did you tel Herron that Cruikshank is dead?"

"Yes."

"His reaction?"

"Shock, sadness, and a heartfelt wish for a peaceful rest. Find anything in the files?"

"Maybe."

We moved to the porch. The breeze was spinning the ceiling fan without aid of electricity.

I set out plates and napkins. Pete divvied up pizza. As we ate, I explained what I'd learned.

"A C on the tab means the case was closed."

"
Now
we're getting somewhere."

"That's what I told Boyd."

Boyd's ears shot forward. His nose never left the table edge.

"A lot of Cruikshank's recent files contained nothing but clippings on missing persons. I made a spreadsheet and started looking for patterns. What are these things?" I pointed to smal black globs on my pizza.

"Dried currants. And?"

"Since 2002, Cruikshank opened jackets on two women and four men reported missing in the Charleston area. No checks or reports. He also had a couple that held nothing but notes."

"So he wasn't actualy hired to look for those people."

"That's my take."

Pete gave the idea some thought. "Could the Dewees guy be one of Cruikshank's MPs?"

"He's not realy a match for any of them."

"Who are they?"

"One male is black, three are white. Their ages range from twenty-seven to fifty-eight. One guy works in the sex trade. Two are drug users. One is schizophrenic. The women are black, twenty-eight and thirty-nine. Both are prostitutes and drug users."

"Think it could be some kind of serial kiler, maybe a predator grabbing hookers and druggies? Fringe people no one wil miss?"

"I don't know the exact date Aikman went missing. Or the Dewees man. But eight months elapsed between the disappearances of Ethridge and Moon, another eight between Moon and Watley. Then it's nine months until Poe. Two months later, it's Snype. If it's a serial, the progression is atypical."

"Aren't serial kilers typicaly atypical?" Pete helped himself to more pizza.

"These profiles are al over the map. Men, women. Black, white. Ages range from twenty-seven to fifty-eight."

"Not restricted to teenage street boys? Or coeds with long, center-parted hair?"

"You're a profiler now?" Acknowledging Pete's references to victim types preferred by John Gacy and Ted Bundy.

"A mere savant. And bearer of pizza."

"Whose idea was the currants?" I asked.

"Arturo's."

For a few moments we listened to waves pound the shore. I broke the silence.

"The article on Lonnie Aikman was written by Homer Winborne. It appeared in the
Moultrie News
on March fourteenth. So we know Cruikshank was alive then."

"Winborne's the guy who showed up at your site?"

I nodded.

"Did you cal him?"

"I wil."

"Any word from Monsieur—"

"No." I took another slice, plucked currants, and set them on my plate.

"A bit gastronomicaly rigid," Pete said.

"Currants and anchovies don't realy mix. Tel me what happened with Herron."

"I never actualy met Herron."

Pete described his day with the GMC accountants. He wasn't exaggerating. It sounded deadly. I remembered what Gulet had told me.

"Someone in the sheriff's office ID'd that brick building in the pictures on Cruikshank's disc."

"Oh, yeah?" Garbled by pizza.

"It's a free clinic run by GMC."

"Where?"

"Nassau Street."

Pete's jaw froze, then he swalowed. "That's where Helene Flynn worked. At least at one point."

"That was my guess. So it makes sense Cruikshank would stake the place out."

Pete wiped his mouth, baled his napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. "Is Gulet going to folow up?"

"Neither Dewees nor Cruikshank is topping the sheriff's agenda. I showed him the two fractured vertebrae, but he's stil not convinced either man was murdered."

"Maybe I should—"

"Gulet definitely does not want you making contact with anyone at that clinic. He was very clear on that."

"What could it hurt—"

"No."

"Why not?" Pete's voice had an edge. I knew that edge. My estranged husband was not a man who liked to be blocked.

"Please, Pete. Don't jam me up with Gulet. He's already letting you and me go where we have no business going. We've got Cruikshank's files and computer. We have a lot to lose. I don't want to risk it. I have to help Emma clear these cases."

"You've done what you can. Emma's the coroner here. Gulet's her battle."

My gaze drifted into the darkness outside the screen. The surf was a silvery white line beyond the lumpy black cutouts I knew were dunes.

I made a decision.

"Emma's sick."

"How sick?"

I told him about the non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, and about Emma's recent relapse.

"I'm sorry, Tempe."

Pete placed his hand on mine. We sat without talking. Outside, the ocean sounded a thundering ovation.

My thoughts were on Emma. Pete's? Good question. I hadn't a clue what he was pondering. Helene Flynn? GMC cash flow? Cruikshank's code? Dessert?

Puzzled by the quiet, Boyd nudged my knee. I patted his head and got up to clear pizza debris. A change of topic seemed indicated.

"I found an eyelash when I screened the Dewees grave soil. It's black. The hair in the grave was blond."

"Aren't everyone's eyelashes black?"

"Not without mascara."

"Think it's from whoever buried the guy?"

"The students who dug him up both have light hair."

"Locard's exchange principle." Pete beamed a "savant" smile.

"I'm impressed," I said.

Pete had cited a concept wel-known to criminalists. Locard stated that two objects coming into contact wil each transfer particles, one to the other. A crook in a bank. A sniper on a tree branch. A murderer digging in sand. Every perp carries trace evidence from a scene and leaves some behind.

"You going to cal this guy Winborne?" Pete asked.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten.

"Eventualy. I may play around with Cruikshank's files a little longer."

"Why did the accountant cross the road?"

Pete was on an accountant rol. I just looked at him.

"Because the file said that's what they did last year."

I'd barely hit the couch when my eyes fel on Pete's cap. My restless subconscious whispered again.
Yo!

What? NBA? Hornets? Turquoise?

Teal!

Jimmie Ray Teal.

When had I read that article? The last morning of the field school. Less than a week.

Pete was moving through the house, battening, I assumed.

I caled out. "What day is garbage pickup?"

"Hel if I know. Why?"

I'd taken a load of papers to the front-yard Dumpster the previous Monday.

"Why?" Pete repeated himself.

I grabbed a flashlight and bolted out the front door and down the steps. Wind was now seriously whipping the palmettos. I could smel rain. The storm wasn't far off.

Flipping the Dumpster lid, I heaved out a blue plastic newspaper recycling tub.

I started at the bottom, hauling out papers, checking dates with my beam, holding the rejects down with one foot. Halfway through, I became aware of a car moving up Ocean Boulevard. I continued working through the stack.

The headlights drew closer.

Bingo! May 19. Front section. Gusts rippled the pages in my hands.

The car slowed. I ignored it.

I found last Friday's business review, classified ads, local and state news.

The car stopped opposite "Sea for Miles," twin beams angled toward the Dumpster.

I looked up, but could make out only the lights.

Ryan? I felt a flutter in my chest.

The car did not move on or turn into the drive.

I shielded my eyes.

The driver gunned the engine. Tires spit loose dirt and the car shot forward.

Something flew toward me.

Dropping the paper, I threw up my hands.

18

SOMETHING HARD WINGED OFF MY ELBOW. PAIN FIRED UP MY arm. I felt liquid and smeled beer.

With my good hand, I swept my flashlight in an arc. The beam fel on a beer bottle angled against the Dumpster.

Thrown by whom?

Kids on a joyride?

Some joy.

Intentionaly aimed? At me personaly?

Last Friday's paper was now scattered across the yard with portions pasted by the wind to the outside of the Dumpster. I gathered sections and returned to the house. Pete had moved from the kitchen to the den, and was scribbling on one of his legal pads. Glancing up, he noticed me holding my arm.

"Lightning strike?" At least it wasn't another accountant joke.

"Some moron whipped a bottle out a car window."

Pete's brows dipped. "You OK?"

"Nothing a little ice won't heal."

I made light of the incident, but inside me a gnawing doubt was beginning to sprout. Pete had spotted a strange vehicle at the house early Sunday morning. Now this. Was someone trying to deliver a message? Joyriding vandals didn't ordinarily stop and survey a target. Or aim at people. Express dislike of something I had done? Dickie Dupree? I resolved to pay closer attention to my surroundings.

While icing my elbow, I reread the story in last Friday's
Post and Courier,
and entered Jimmie Ray Teal into my spreadsheet.

Teal, Jimmie Ray, 47. Male. Last seen May 8 leaving Jackson Street apartment. Brother. Medical appointment.

I was wondering about Teal's racial background when another thought struck me. The city councilman's son, Matthew Summerfield, was another missing person. But the kid didn't realy fit the pattern of the other Charleston MPs. What pattern?